


Folded Spaces

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John muses on the unexpected new addition into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folded Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Winter fest at [sexy_right](http://community.livejournal.com/sexy_right/5310.html) on livejournal.

The ironic thing is that Al was just teasing him about this sort of thing a couple of months ago.

“It’s not fair that you still got it,” Al had said with a guffaw during one of their quarterly get-togethers. “I bet you can still turn on that McClane charm and have a sweet young thing soft as putty in your hands in no time.”

Besides the fact that Powell had been a little drunk and a lot teasing, John’s self-aware enough to know that he should at least be a little bit worried about the fact that he _does_ have a sweet young thing currently living in his apartment, even if said sweet young thing burps, farts and curses profusely.

“The fuck!” Matt exclaims, voice travelling the short distance across the apartment to where John is mulling over his predicament. John only glances up when Matt marches into the living room and grabs his arm. Kid ain’t strong enough to drag him anywhere but John goes with him anyway, watching with amusement the way Matt’s sad excuse for moustache quivers when he says, “ _That_ , what the fuck is that?”

“You’re the tech whizz here, shouldn’t you be the one telling me?” John asks, barely holding back a grin at the way Matt blinks at the coffee maker accusingly.

John would bet dollars to doughnuts that Matt is nowhere near the shape Al had in mind when he’d joked about John finding someone to warm his sheets. John would say that’s just as easily true for anyone who thinks they know him, up to and including Lucy and Holly. Hell, even John isn’t quite sure what he sees in the kid, with his weird hobbies and anti-conformist wardrobe and propensity for spouting the most bizarre bits of trivia on a daily basis.

“Do you know where most coffee beans come from?” Matt is saying now, voice going shrill in the way that John knows is a portend of doom. “Do you have any idea?”

No, John doesn’t have any idea, so he’s happy to let Matt educate him. Matt’s words are like a freight train, fast and impassioned, and it’s interesting to watch how his eyebrows do a funny dance in an attempt to emphasize the point.

“Are you even listening to me?” Matt snaps, waving his fingers in front of John’s face.

John grabs Matt’s wrist and squeezes gently, smirking when his expression jumps with indignant surprise. “Of course I am,” John says. “I’ll make a point to look out for fair trade coffee beans next time I go on a grocery run.”

Matt makes a sputtering sound, irritated for having his argument derailed by the thumb currently stroking his pulse point. “Yeah, well, just ‘cause you caught one of the main points I was talking about doesn’t mean that you were actually paying attention.”

Holly would say that John’s a dirty old man for the way his skin heats up when he sees that slow smile creep across Matt’s face. It’s the smile that says he knows exactly what John’s doing, and he’s torn between letting it happen and getting the final word in.

“I pay attention to everything,” John says, subtly maneuvering Matt around the breakfast island and not for one moment thinking Matt doesn’t realize what’s going down. “I’d be a pretty crap cop if I didn’t.”

“Do you really want to get started about whether you’re a crap whatever?” Matt asks, half-heartedly trying to tug his hand away. “Your apartment’s already the size of a closet, what makes you think you have space for more shit?” He looks surprised and then faintly guilty when he voices that last question, soft lower lip caught between his teeth.

The only reason it’s gotten more cramped in John’s apartment is because Matt’s moved in – _all_ the way in, after all those weeks of arguing and more arguing and having frustrated sex in between. John’s okay with it and he keeps telling Matt so because he doesn’t have much stuff anyway, but Matt still hovers in uncertainty, as though bracing himself for when John will change his mind and drop him to the street.

Yeah, as if _John_ isn’t the lucky bastard in this situation; a guy half his age and twice his smarts having found something in him worth hanging around for.

“Well, genius,” John says wryly, “You know I don’t bring anything in here unless it’s worth keeping.”

“Yeah?” Matt says, though he’s already smiling, shoulders relaxed, “You really want to argue that with the kind of junk lying around? Some of ‘em have gone all the way ‘round from rubbish to ancient artifact, even.”

“Some people would say the same of me,” John says, making a show of looking down at himself and patting his chest. “But I think I look pretty damn fine.”

Matt opens his mouth, witty rejoinder no doubt at the ready, but after a long, wordless moment his jaw snaps shut again with a click. His eyes are dark and slowly sweeping down John’s body, and his hands have subtly curled backward to clutch the edge of the counter.

John can almost hear Al’s hearty laugh: _putty in your hands_.

And he’d be right, except for where it stupidly goes both ways.

“C’mere,” John says, though he steps forward to push Matt back against the counter, sliding his hands around Matt’s waist.

“Shit.” Matt sounds almost surprised, as if this is something new.

“Now you got to make me prove that we still have enough kitchen space,” John says, deft hands tugging Matt’s shirt out from his pants. “Ain’t that right, kid?”

“Please do not call me kid when we do this,” Matt says, though he’s already sliding his hands across John’s shoulders for leverage. “Unless that’s what gets you off, of which I will totally not judge, but you have to tell me that so I know that’s what you’re on about and we’re all on the same page.”

John’s also used to Matt’s babble, which as predictable and familiar as the other parts of him that have insinuated themselves into John’s life. He likes having Matt’s chatter in the background, he likes how Matt lays everything that he is in his stream of prattling monologue, he likes putting his hands on Matt’s body and seeing how long it takes before he can turn the words into gibberish. (Eight to ten minutes, usually, but it depends on how horny Matt is when they start.)

“You know,” Matt says conversationally, grinning down at where John’s hands are working on his belt buckle, “For an old man you’re kinda insatiable.”

“And you wonder why I still call you kid,” John says with a snort, feeling no need to point out who between the two of them is more likely to be able to run up the eight flights of stairs to their apartment without breaking a sweat. Yeah, there’s no need for words when John can just as easily prove his point by grabbing the backs of Matt’s thighs and lifting him up easy as pie to dump him on the counter.

“Jesus Christ!” Matt swears, making a face when his ass hits the hard surface. “Oh, shit you’re serious. You want to fuck right here.”

John snickers, pulling Matt’s belt out with one smooth, snapping motion.

“Wait, wait, shit,” Matt says, one hand flailing at the blinders. “Can you stop being crazy for two minutes and not molest me while the neighbors might be watching?”

“Trick question?” John asks, shoving Matt farther up the narrow space until his shoulders hit the drywall. John presses in, close enough that Matt’s bangs brush his forehead, so he can grab the offending blinders and yank them shut. “You like me ‘cause I’m crazy, don’t front.”

Matt’s surprised laugh comes out sounding more like a snort. “Did you just say ‘don’t front’? Because I think I may have hallucinated something _completely insane_ for a moment there.” Matt finishes that particular tirade by grabbing the back of John’s head and pulling him in for a kiss.

This kind of multitasking is easy, John getting himself comfortable against Matt’s mouth while he drags his fingers down Matt’s back until he shudders.

Matt’s more solid that he looks, all wiry muscles and bony limbs; apparently that works just as well for John as smooth curves and soft skin. Perhaps it works a little too well, for the way familiar heat coils at the base of John’s spine when Matt touches his head, fingers trailing the curves of his skull.

Maybe John _should_ be feeling a sliver of guilt somewhere in here, but he can’t, not when Matt’s tongue is licking hotly into his mouth. All that John feels is the same, stupid high he gets every time they do this, like the second (or third) unexpected wind in John’s life is to have Matt Farrell pawing at him like he’s starving for it.

“Shit, shit, oh my god,” Matt pants when John moves his mouth across Matt’s cheek, up to his ear and bite gently on the lobe. “You _are_ serious.”

“Serious McClane, that’s my name,” John says, using one hand to pop the button of Matt’s pants. He doesn’t need to use one hand but Matt loves that, breath hitching like John’s every single one of his wet dreams come true, and how about that? “Don’t wear it out.”

Some quick maneuvering of Matt’s boxers and John has the kid’s half-hard cock out in the open air, flushed and getting more interested the longer John contemplates it.

“You gonna stare at it all day or are you gonna do something with it?” Matt asks. The words are tough but his voice cracks a little, face flushed with arousal and embarrassment.

“Eh,” John says with a casual shrug, just before he dips down and swipes his tongue across the head.

There’s a thump where Matt’s head hits the kitchen wall, and then he’s babbling again, right on schedule. John smiles around Matt’s cock as he swallows it down, each forceful suck around the shaft making Matt’s fingers dig in deep into the muscle of John’s shoulders.

Cocksucking isn’t one of John’s favorite things to do, but Matt makes it worthwhile, sputtering valuable feedback such as, “Holy fucking what, oh god” that makes John up the ante by tugging Matt’s pants down to his knees so he can push a free hand into the crevice between Matt’s thighs, teasing the hot skin and puckered hole with his fingertips.

This is what John wants all the time now: this little piece of weirdly-shaped happiness in the form of one Matt Farrell carving a home for himself in John’s space.

 _He’s one lucky bastard._

“Almost there,” Matt whines, almost hilariously quick, breath hitching and fingers digging deep into John’s neck.

John hums around Matt’s cock, ignoring the ache in his jaw and sucking deeper until he feels the head bump the back of his throat. But what it really takes for Matt to get off is John’s pressing his thumb against Matt’s opening, and the moment the tip breaches the muscle Matt lets out a toe-curling wail sound of desperation.

And if there were another question about it, John swallows.

“Ngggh,” is the almost-word that comes out of Matt’s mouth when his softening cock finally slips out past John’s lips.

Standing back up, John can fully appreciate the sight before him, Matt’s legs splayed wide, Matt’s mouth parted and red where he’s been biting down on it, Matt looking so damn comfortable on what’s otherwise a really uncomfortable kitchen counter.

Matt’s fingers tug at his shirt weakly, but John bats them away. “Nah, I’m good,” he says.

“No,” Matt slurs, wobbling close and trying to sit up. “S’fair.”

“Kid, this?” John waves a hand, hoping it doesn’t make him sound like a fucking sap in that he’s referring to Matt, the apartment, everything, “Is more than fair. Now shut up and let me make my goddamn coffee.”  



End file.
